Gravity
by Zeff N Company
Summary: They meet in an inevitable embrace that stings from impact, and then they draw apart by just that bit...his fingers tightly wrapped around those many belts as he lifts the man's torso from his own. Mild LxC for kou-tora.


_Written for _kou-tora_, with the retained fascination over wings that spawned the Summon's Tale._

_Setting: Somewhere between Kingdom Hearts I and II._

* * *

There are some moments in twilight where he dreams. It's the same dream for him, though he only realizes so when he awakes. Still, within that dream, he relives again the experience that haunts him as he lays there...

In his dreams, he sees the sky of dawn, with its soft blue tinted in warm shades of fire's color that come from the slowly rising sun. He sees that sky, and in that sky, he sees himself flying. Then he notices, somehow, that while it is him, it does not look like him - perhaps the fact that he is a wyvern in his dreams is a good point toward the matter.

Regardless, he knows in his mind, that the wyvern is him - he knows those dark black wings that are composed of tight leather stretched over light bone and powerful muscle; he knows the flight pattern, composed of angry, violent strokes that slice through the topaz-tinted air with a vengeance. He knows he is flying with a desperate urge to savor his freedom, as though it would be snatched from him the moment he slackens.

As he dreams this, he dreams further; in his vision, he sees his self of a wyvern lashing at the clouds with his wrath, dispersing them harshly before they slowly reform themselves. He sees himself doing these bitter, thoughtless actions, over and over again, and then he sees someone join him.

Always, without fail, out from somewhere above in the clouds untouched, a single form of a man with wings comes down to him. He, the wyvern, arches in an attempt to intimidate the one who would dare disturb him now. The man never heeds that silent warning, but hovers just in front of his snout, just out of reach from nostrils that constantly billow thick gray smoke.

Feathered wings of red beat in the air, giving the man the appearance of an angel to contrast the demonic presentation of the wyvern; but there is nothing all that angelic in the man's manner. For as he the wyvern bellows out a second, dark warning from the pits of his throat, the man smiles, silver eyes dancing as his entire countenance mocks him and his attempts.

And then those wings curl, the tips of feathers caressing the billowing nostrils for a fleeting second before the man shoots backward and away, musical laughter conveying one simple message:

_Catch me if you can._

His dream self as a wyvern, with a regularity, takes the bait and throws his whole weight forward; a roar of unrestrained fury escapes him as he swoops after the arrogant man in an attempt to take him down, to tear him limb from limb...to prove what he can truly do if he wanted to.

The man remains out of reach, and his smile gets more smug - more cocky - at the sight of the creature playing right into his hands. The distance between them is never fixed, constantly tightening and stretching; as the wyvern comes within snapping reach, the man always gains another burst of speed to save himself, but never before teasing the angry one with another fleeting caress at his snout.

He keeps dreaming, for what seems like an eternity in those few short hours of restlessness. He continues to watch himself, the wyvern, and the one that he can't catch - the man with feathery wings of red. He watches, and notices, repeatedly, how the gentle fingers slowly become the whole palm as they touch the wyvern's head without losing so much as a scrap of skin to those dagger-like fangs.

For some reason or another, the purpose of the pursuit is lost...lost not to the runner, but to the chaser; he finds that his wyvern jaws are slowing in their attempts to sink into flesh, and notices that he's perhaps starting to allow, and wait, for that hand to brush across his head in a way none others have.

Then, at some point indefinite, the man stops escaping. He stops covering distance, and just stays there - with his feet pointed to the distance below and under the lower tiers of clouds, and his wings spread out at full length from his back, as though in welcome.

And the wyvern - he flies straight for that embrace...and pauses, but only a few inches from the man's face. Eyes stare into eyes, and something changes within. The hand comes up again, and this time runs along the leathery snout for a longer duration.

It is an open gesture of trust: trust that he would not be attacked, trust that the fiery one would allow his touch, and trust...that the fiery one would respond. He has yet to disappoint that gesture, and he can hear himself rumble in contentment as his eyes fall shut, and they remain there in the sky, hovering, and simply enjoying that moment in time.

The moment ends, and the wyvern opens his eyes once more at the familiar, musical laughter that escapes the man. He looks up, lazily following the back that sprouts those red wings, as the man does a careless flip in the air. It is the same laugh as before, but it sounds different - there is no mockery here...just a simple, unbridled spurt of happiness.

The wyvern watches, curiously, his large head turning continuously to keep the man in sight, and the winged man just keeps flying in circles around him, laughing without end. And then the man flies away again, and he flies after him. This time, though, the chase is over; they do not fly in pursuit of one to the other...they fly together, matching their pace with little trouble.

In those moments, his dream always seemed such a happy one...but he knows that it always ends the same way, and it would always unnerve his awakened person. But for now, his dream self knows nothing - is too innocent to what will come next...

They fly slowly, the wyvern beating his wings steadily, no longer trying to go as fast as before; he is content, reassured that he can at last take a moment of reprieve from his haste. And flying everywhere around him - over, under, behind and before - is the man with his feathered wings of red. It seems right, and it feels good; it feels like they could just do this until the end of time.

Everything peaceful draws to its close, as the man finally pauses, once more, a few inches from the snout. Both stop there, hovering as they did before, and the hand touches leathery skin, lingering there with an ominous air that riles up a wariness in the reptilian creature.

The man still smiles, and for a moment, he wonders... Was that truly the same smile he always wore...or was that smile just that little bit more...sad?

He does not get his chance to ask - he has yet to - for in a startling quick moment, the red wings just disappear. They shatter like glass, their bits scattering and vaporizing like dry ice, leaving behind but a mere man, suspended in the air. One second...perhaps half more...and the now wingless man drops like a rock, his hand sliding off the wyvern's snout just as rapidly.

And he watches himself - he watches the wyvern just stay there, unmoving and in shock, as the man falls. At some point, the wind changes the man's position in his drop, for he is now on his back, that hand still stretched out as though in a wave of goodbye. He does not understand why, but that smile is still there as well, and that smile squeezes at the cold-blooded heart of the wyvern...who still fails to act. And the man just keeps falling, getting smaller and smaller...

He disappears into a thick cloud below, and is never seen again.

There, the dream ends, and he awakens.

Twilight is still yet to pass, he notes, after these dreams that are one and the same in their story. There is little comfort in the seconds after his eyes snap open to the usual darkened surroundings, to the old cracked ceiling over his head, and the feel of the mattress that is suddenly a little too empty, and a little too cold. He never stays long after that, choosing to get up, to change into his normal attire, and to just get out of the confining place; sleep won't be coming back to him that easily.

He knows where to go, in his waking moments in the darkness, and his steps are automatic. Without conscious thought, he finds himself up on the highest cliff that overlooks the city of Hollow Bastion. He sees the sky above that is dull and void of even a star, and he sees the shadows with spots of light that are the homes below.

And he sees, ahead, a lone figure standing precariously at the edge of the cliff. Like a fool, does that figure stand on one leg, with his arms stretched out to his sides and his head tilted back. Like a fool, that figure - that man he knows a little more than he knows himself - keeps doing that in these moments of twilight, and he finds humor in asking, again and again with each time:

"Leon? What are you doing?"

It's the same answer as well, and given as the man fails to change his posture. Sometimes, the tone used is flat and deadpan, and sometimes there is a hint of emotion; it all depends on how the previous day went, and what effect it took upon the stoic leader's emotions.

"Can't you tell? I'm flying."

Honestly childish, and not at all befitting the warrior that everyone looks up to and respects. But it is pure in that honesty, and it is open - vulnerable - only to him. Not just a gesture in faith toward the closeness they share, but a silent, indirect request; one little, selfish favor delivered in typical manner, and one that he is more than happy to oblige with his own ability.

He crosses the distance between them, and his hand rests on the shoulder. All the while, the man before him keeps standing on one leg, and he is careful not to upset his balance...not right away.

"Really, now...all you had to do was ask."

No warning given, he shoves the man right off the edge of the cliff, and with a swift kick, jumps after him as he drops rapidly.

In those precious moments of twilight before the dawn's approach, there is nothing but them and the dark sky of obsidian. In that sky, they fly together - technically, he does the flying; his passenger merely hangs on for the ride. A lone, surprisingly strong wing beats with a rhythm, and his arms are fully extended below him, meeting and clasping the hands of the warrior that hangs from that perch. Both look forward, focused on the endless painting of black highlighted in rich purple, though they never have a clear destination in mind.

After a while - more out of impulse than strain - the brunet below him deliberately lets go, and slips from his slack grip to let himself fall. He allows that man his momentary recklessness, instead flying after him, pass him, and is then there to meet him as he comes down. Again, hand claps into hand, and with a swift fling, he tosses his passenger high into the sky once more before flying to meet him again.

If he could only see himself from afar, as he did in his dreams. How he would have fascinated himself thoroughly in the image they make: High, high above the ground they know is below them, they dance with each other like this, connecting and disconnecting, parting and rejoining. Their accompaniment is not a sonata composed by mortal men, but the omnipresent, immortal gravity that binds the world.

These moments before the sun comes belong to them and no other, and he is drunk in the consistent revelations of emotions that leap forth from the one he dances with: there is such unfettered joy...the excitement of being completely, absolutely free of everything.

Free from the morning that means another day of acknowledging how far their home fell. Free from obligations of being the strong arms that carry the burdens of the people atop his own. Free from the invisible chains that bind him to the earth - the grounding of flightless ones that forces upon him so many limitations.

Free to know, and free to enjoy.

Before, perhaps still hindered by his innate instinct to put up fronts, his passenger had only smiled, at the most grinning. But here, in the now, the man laughs without reservation - a deep, boisterous, infectious laugh that drums at his heart, and makes him want to laugh as well.

Never have they appointed a fixed time, but it's routine for the highly active dance to slow and end, just as the first, traitorous rays of sunlight threaten to reveal their activities to the ignorant populace below them. As the scarred warrior drops again, he positions himself upon his back, directly under the one he catches.

They meet in an inevitable embrace that stings from impact, and then they draw apart by just that bit; his passenger propping against his shoulders, and he with his fingers tightly wrapped around those many belts as he lifts the man's torso from his own.

They stay like that, caring little for their circumstances, and through a strong, unrelenting gaze, delve deep within each other's souls. Neither holds back, just as neither resists the yielding of their spirits to inspections that are so frequent between them.

Their flight ends as the man he holds above him finally notices the sky illuminating. There is a sigh - reluctant and wistful - and he answers by finding the cliff and returning them to it.

They land, and they part; one is still bound to his endless quest to confront his inner demon, and the other still to the restoration of a broken kingdom. It's the start of another day for them...until next time.

Those moments in twilight continue in all their stubbornness to exist, just as he continues to dream.

In his dreams, he is still the wyvern that needed to be goaded before finally realizing that the man was just trying to befriend him. In his dreams, he is still the wyvern that takes too long to accept that open offer of friendship when there is so little time left for them to be together.

In his dreams, he is still that same stubborn, angry wyvern, and still he watches himself let the suddenly wingless man fall and disappear.

Yet, dreams are dreams; no more, no less. He acknowledges them as such, since he as well understands how reality is so much more different.

In this darkened world yet to be touched by light; in these hours before the dawn, where he is awake - and the other awake with him - he has no intention of letting his trusting companion fall too far to reach.


End file.
